


Killer Queen

by Froggyflan



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Drunk Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Genderbending, Getting really fluffy, Heterosexual Sex, Office Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggyflan/pseuds/Froggyflan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alright, I'm sold.”</p><p>Rhys laughs. “Sold?”</p><p>She snaps her fingers and points at him. He shivers. “You're it, kitten. My office, now.”</p><p>---<br/>In which Rhys is chosen as sacrifice for the boss, and will be eaten alive. </p><p>Female! Handsome Jack x Rhys</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rhys Is An Idiot

He wasn't sure what was going on.

Everyone seemed to be tenser than usual today, quicker in step and harder at work. The office was normally so dull and unorganized, people joking and laughing and procrastinating. A normal office.

But today something was different.

Everything looks cleaner, brighter, polished. People are wearing their best suits and skirts, faces immaculate and nervous. If he didn't know any better, and he really doesn't, he'd guess they were getting a visit from corporate. Maybe that was it.

Vaughn rushes past his desk, not even glancing at him, arms full of papers and manila folders. His glasses were nearly falling off his nose, like he didn't have time to fix them.

“Vaughn!” he calls out, standing from his desk to draw his attention. The man jolts to a stop and nearly drops everything. “Where's the fire, bro? What is everyone's deal?”

Vaughn gives him a confused look over his frames. “It's November 8th.”

Rhys kind of laughs. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh man, you started in May, right? Sorry, I guess I forgot to tell you.”

He looks around, darts his eyes to the elevator, and throws all his work of Rhys' desk, ducking into his cubicle. He starts organizing it with nervous fingers. “Every 6 months, we get a visit from-”

There's a dinging sound, and Vaughn dives behind the desk, his head thudding against the drawers. He's clutching his chest, eyes terrified. He looks like he's about to be eaten by a kraggon.

“Dude, it was just my comm. What are you so afraid of?”

Vaughn looks up, and he finally fixes his glasses. He lets out a shaky sigh and slumps against the desk.

“Bro, today we're getting a visit from the boss.”

Rhys frowned. He'd heard plenty of things about the boss. He'd never seen him in person, but he knew it was safer if he didn't. Rumor had it that he'd killed fifty bandits all on his own, and then sent their heads back to their families in cardboard boxes, express shipping. “What happens?”

Vaughn eyes him under furrowed brows, and takes a moment to think. “It's an inspection. If you're not up to par, you get summoned.” He takes a breath. “People don't come back.”

“Summoned? To his office?”

Vaughn's gives him a _very_ confused look this time, opening his mouth to answer, but then there's a sound.

A ding.

Rhys sits straight up, and Vaughn sinks down. That was the sound of the elevator, followed by the metal whoosh of doors opening.

The room is silent, and then the clicking starts.

It sounds like expensive shoes. Very expensive. He's sure. They move to the east side of the office first, away from his desk, loud against the polished floor. He starts to peak over the cubicle walls, but Vaughn grabs his arm for dear life. He is terrified.

“Don't look! Don't draw attention to yourself!”

Rhys has goosebumps now. He hears the office spring back to life, if only at half capacity. Only the sound of typing is heard, computers buzzing and whirring. And those clicking shoes.

He busies himself, working as diligently as he can with the threat of death looming over him. How could Vaughn forget to tell him something so important? He would have dressed nicer. His slacks were wrinkled and he had a stain on his shirt from the coffee he spilled this morning. He's a wreck in comparison to everyone else. He runs his hand through his hair thinking it probably looked as frazzled as the rest of him. He looks at his arm, which was in need of maintenance, or at least a good wipe down. He'd been meaning to take it to the shop, but never got around to it. Oh god, he even had mismatched socks-

“What is this?”

He nearly falls out of his chair at the voice interrupting his thoughts. His eyes are probably bugging out of his head. He glances down at Vaughn, who looks like he's about to throw up, before looking up to the voice

There's a woman standing in front of his desk. Her hair is dark and piled perfectly on her head, and her lips are dusty red. Her eyes are bright and mismatched, just like his socks. She's incredibly beautiful. Rhys doesn't know what to do. 

“H-Huh?”

The woman shifts her stance, her hips gliding to the other side. She folds her arms, and his mouth is dry. “Eloquent. What is this on your desk?”

He slowly looks down at Vaughn's papers and folders, still strewn across his desk. He can feel Vaughn's panic. He doesn't understand. He smiles at her, loosening up.

“Oh, sorry, these are just some finance reports I need to file. Just cleaning up, really.”

She looks unimpressed. He notices the metal clasps at her temples and chin, and he can't help but stare.

“Something wrong with my face?” She asks. Her eyebrows are finely drawn, perfect. He shakes his head softly. 

“No, you're very handsome. I haven't seen you around before. What department do you work in?”

There is a moment of silence, and he wonders what he said wrong. Was it the handsome part? Women don't like to be called handsome, idiot, they're pretty, gorgeous, stunning, whatever. Now he knows why everyone says he's bad at talking to girls. He feels Vaughn shift into himself even tighter, breathing hard but quiet.

The woman is smiling at him now. It's a spine chilling smirk that he would not expect on someone like her. He smiles back.

“You're something else,” she says quietly, and he suddenly feels like he's in danger. “You're new?”

“Yep! This is my first, uh, inspection too. Is he really as scary as everyone says he is?”

There's that silence again. Vaughn is practically crying, and he can hear him wheeze under his breath.

The woman tilts her head back and starts to laugh, loud, booming, and the entire room has stopped again. She gives him a threatening look, but she's still laughing, and he feels something horrible creeping in him. What is going on?

“Hell, baby, you're a winner. Stand up.”

He hesitates, and Vaughn is shaking his head wildly. He stands slowly and straightens his vest.

She puts a finger to her chin and taps on the metal clasp with a perfectly manicured finger, looking him over. Her eyebrow shoots up, and he flicks her finger in a circle. “Turn.”

He's not sure why he's doing what she asks, but he doesn't want her to give him that look again. He spreads his arms and turns, smiling awkwardly. “Am I good?”

“Oh you're fine,” she practically purrs, hand on her hips. “A lot skinnier than I'm used to. Long legs. You're like a giraffe. And that arm? What, is that from R&D?”

“Yeah, actually.” He has the confidence to speak again. She's not so scary now. “I was one of the preliminary subjects.”

“The eye too?”

“Yes ma'am! This is much newer than the arm. Just started getting used to it, really.”

“Alright, I'm sold.”

Rhys laughs. “Sold?”

She snaps her fingers and points at him. He shivers. “You're it, kitten. My office, now.”

He opens his mouth to ask, but she's turning and walking to the elevator, and then he hears it.

The clicking.

Her expensive shiny heels click gracefully, loudly, on the floor, and he is frozen in place.

She...

She's....

Vaughn has his face in his hands, a whine escaping him. “Rhys, what the fuck dude. What in the fuck.”

Rhys is still trying to process it, and failing. He can't believe this. He'd wish he were dead from embarrassment, but he's about to be dead from whatever is in that office. Iron maidens? Is he going to starve in a cage? Maybe used for target practice?

“If you're not in this elevator in ten seconds, I've got an airlock with your name on it.”

Rhys' is bolting to the elevator, nearly tripping and flying through the doors. As he rounds into it, he sees Vaughn look at him over the cubicle with worried sad eyes. He may never see him again. The woman, his boss, the bandit killer, turns to him, smirking.

“Handsome, huh?”


	2. Rhys Fucks His Boss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is this so long?? Sheesh.
> 
> \---

The ride up is nauseating.

She is eyeing him smugly, and he's trying to look as small as possible. It's very difficult, considering he's taller than her. He's surprised by it. She's definitely tall for a woman, well above the average, but he's got at least 3 inches on her. He squares his shoulders and balls his fists.

The embarrassment is hot on his face, the scrutiny making his stomach hurt, the fear of his very being making his knees tremble.

All over this beautiful woman smiling at him like nothing's wrong.

“You seriously didn't know?” She asks, and her laugh is sickeningly sweet on her lips. She likes to tease.

“No ma'am,” he whispers, barely even able to force that out. He feels that he should not be so scared of her, but he knows better. He knows what she does, who she is. He sees it written all over her, in her posture, on her face. She looks soft and welcoming, really, but she's cold and dangerous. She is a proud force to be reckoned with, and she doesn't take shit from anyone. She's the one dealing it to everyone else.

“You're funny,” she chuckles. “It's been so long since I've had a greenhorn. Never as green as you. At least the others knew who I was. Didn't talk so much.”

“Sorry, ma'am.”

“I like it.” Her smile pulls the mask tight. “So precious. All they ever do is piss themselves and cry when they see me. You were the first who didn't.”

He's not sure if he should be honored or even more embarrassed.

“As fun as that is, it's almost nice to have a normal conversation.” She shrugs, and he hears what may be disappointment. It's gone as soon as he thinks it. “Well it's over now! You know who I am, and you're shaking like a damn rabbit. Knock it off.”

“Sorry, ma'am.” But he doesn't stop. She rolls her eyes. The elevator is finally coming to a stop, but there isn't even a button for this floor. It's on top of the top floor. The doors whoosh open, and she's already walking away from him.

“I'm not going to kill you.”

He feels his soul leave his body in relief, his hand in his hair as he gulps for air. Jesus Christ.

His eyes follow her nervously out of the elevator into her office, and he is again floored by beauty. 

Elpis is bright across three expansive windows, taller than anything he could think of. Her desk is placed right in the middle, lead up by marble steps and guarded by boulder sized busts in her image. It's not subtle or humble, but she was neither of those things anyway.

The room is bathed in blues and purples, space so dark behind the white of the moon. She clicks up the steps to her desk, her computer already flashing to life. She throws herself into the huge yellow chair, and he watches her kick her heels off with annoyance.

“These things are shit,” she hisses. “I'd wear sneakers, but no one would take me seriously. Well, I mean I could, but I'd have to kill, like, every person who looked at me weird. Not worth my time.”

He's still standing in the elevator, looking at the waterfalls surrounding the busts. The trickle of the water is soothing, but he's still trapped in a truly horrifying place. She stares at him. “Get your ass over here, meat bag,” and he's running.

She doesn't seem to be paying him any mind after that, tapping at screens and chewing a pen that's suddenly between her lips. Her foot kicks absentmindedly as she types. It's actually cute, but he'd be burned alive for saying that.

He spots a chair to the left of the desk, and slowly lowers himself into it, his eyes not leaving her. She said she wasn't going to kill him, but that barely explained anything. He was still here for something, and if he didn't ask, he may never know why.

“M-Ma'am-”

A finger points at him, and he snaps shut. She doesn't even look at him when she does it, and that makes him curl into his seat. His fingers fidget in his lap, legs pressed tightly together, waiting.

After a while, she spits out the pen and it clatters to her desk. She is swiping programs left and right, until the screen is blank, and she turns her chair to face him. He audibly gulps.

“So,” she begins, leaning back. Her legs are crossed at the knee, and he hadn't noticed before. He sees her thigh peak under her pencil skirt and there's a, oh, there's a gun there. Of course. “You must be wondering what you're doing here, I know. This is an ultimatum, and I need you to pick the right answer.”

He feels his breath escape him, so he nods. He can't trust himself to speak.

“Good,” she purrs, and he likes that in her voice. She sounds pleased, and he needs to make sure she stays that way. “You're very easy. Every six months I do this, and at first it was just funny, but now it's a little,” she hums like she isn't sure what to say. Indecisive is not a good look for her, not if he wants to keep living. “Stale?”

He wants to ask questions, but this is not the time. He just needs to pick the right answer, and get on with things, life, if he's lucky. He nods, not thinking. She nods back.

“So here's the deal. I'm going to let you fuck me. That's it. So I lied, it's not really an ultimatum. It's just fact.”

He's in awe of the way she says it, her face so uncaring and still so smug. Her naked toes twitch and she looks at her screen again, a new program opened. She scowls at it and types away.

Of course he doesn't know what to say. She can't be serious, but he knows she is. She just is. He starts to shake again, and he isn't sure why.

“Ma'am, I-”

“Jackie,” she coos, eyes alight on the screen, tapping and sliding. “I don't want you calling me that outside this office, got it? Out there, it's ma'am, miss, sir, general, lord and savior, whatever.”

He nods curtly, and the corners of her mouth raise a little. “Good boy.”

“J-Jackie,” he tests out, and it's foreign and doesn't fit. “I don't-”

“Don't want to? Come on,” she sneers playfully. She nods her head toward a door to her right. “That's the room where I put all the people who 'don't want to'.”

“R-Really?” He can't breathe.

“No, it's a coat closet. I'm just fucking with you.”

He's going to have a nervous breakdown, he can feel it. His whole body is trembling like he doesn't know what warmth is, and he is still trying to swallow the fear.

“Ma'a- Jackie,” he pipes up, “I don't understand.”

She rolls her eyes again, and he feels her frustration.

“Every six months I pull someone from one of the departments to fuck with, literally. Sometimes everything is fine. Other times, they think it makes them special and it starts to go to their heads. Or they're shitty in the sack. If that happens, I have to let them go. Out into space.”

His lip trembles, but he pushes. “I thought you said you weren't going to kill me.”

“Well I hope I don't have to, kiddo.” She gives him that threatening look again, and he melts. “You look promising. Cute, even. Like a pool boy. I don't have a pool but, you know, I can improvise if needed.”

He slowly breathes, and his mind is a blank slate. He's not sure how to feel, let alone think. This isn't what he expected. He wonders if it would be easier to just open the airlock himself.

She stands from her chair suddenly, and he is up in arms, clenching the sides of his own chair desperately. She pads over to him slowly, a sway in her hips that wasn't there before, an air of power and control that makes him feel so utterly small. He doesn't hate it.

She stops between his legs, and starts to lean forward. He can feel himself grow weak with her proximity, her perfume tickling his nose gently. It's a soft pretty smell, just like the rest of her. She touches his arm, black oil already on her fingertips, and dips them into the joints. He is absolutely still. The last thing he wanted to do was move and pinch her fingers off. That would surely earn him a trip to the stars.

“The hydraulics have seen better days,” she whispers, and he shivers. Her fingers keep working over the yellow frame and dark coils, but he's too occupied watching her legs lift up and rest on either side of his lap, slowly seating herself there.

Her other hand touches his face, near his bionic eye, and he keeps himself from flinching back. She looks directly into it and tugs at his lower lid. “This is very nice. We sorta match, huh? Cute.”

He tries not to blink, his chest slowly taking in much needed oxygen. Her eyes are so close to his now, and hers are just so bright, and mirror his own, in a way. The green is sinister, but the blue is almost gentle. “You can scan me.”

He balks. “W-What?”

“Go on, scan me, Mr. Echoeye. I bet it'd be funny.”

He almost whines in fear, but he can do it. He blinks carefully and the eye flickers on. She is mesmerized, and he feels sort of lucky. She has her arms spread out and up, leaning away from him in the seat. She has a childish grin on, and he scans her.

Everything is suddenly painful and buzzing, and his eye glitches out and sparks. He jumps in his chair, and she clings to him to keep herself from falling to the ground. His vision is bright white and blue and his head feels hot like a fever. The outline of her sharp jaw is all he sees, and she's laughing right in his face.

“You dummy! Of course you can't scan me, I'm the boss! Programmed it myself. Can't have you learning anything confidential.”

Her hands are balled into his shirt, oil from his arm staining it, and she's completely covering him with herself now. He's blinking slowly back into reality, and she is so close, lips nearly upon his. He shivers, and she notices. “I told you it'd be funny.”

She kisses him, hard, and his chest gets tight. His body naturally tries to sink into the chair, but she follows him, her hips pinning his down. Her body is curved against his, and when she moves her lips against his, he knows the lipstick is his now, smeared and not his color.

She pries his hands from the sides of the chair and presses them to her hips, and she doesn't stop kissing him, wet and powerful. He would whimper if he could. She is strong and gorgeous, and how did he get here.

Her body is not as soft as it looks, definitely, as she moves his hands to her waist, and back down to her thighs. She is hard in all the right places, soft where she needs to be. Her waist is thin, her hips wider. She has the body of a boxer, thick, but still so absolutely feminine. She is guiding his hands again, over her brown pencil skirt, fingers catching on the hem and pulling up.

The gun is showing again, tightly holstered to her thigh with weathered leather straps. He flinches when his fingers brush it, and she pulls off his lips with a pop. Her lipstick is still perfect.

“You scared?” Her voice makes his cock twitch, and it only dawns on him now that he is as hard as stone. He is equal parts horny and afraid. He breathes against her softly and nods.

She moves his hand away from the gun and lifts it from the holster herself. She kisses him as she lifts it up, tapping on the trigger. He gasps as she bites his lip and pulls back. The gun is nearly pointed at him, and he's still.

“Have you ever even seen a gun?” He shakes his head, fingers on her hips twitching. She cocks the gun and removes the safety, and he might pee himself. She's smiling something strange.

“You are cute.” Before he can get too scared, she's tossing it away with a clatter, and suddenly she's all hands, groping and pulling at his clothes. He holds his breath as she squeezes his ribs through his vest, deadly hands kneading and crushing him. It's so sexy, holy shit.

She slides his tie from its knot, and drapes it over her own neck. His heart beats fiercely at the sight. She rips the first button from his shirt, but undoes the rest normally, and he wants to smile, but knows it's too risky. She finally gets to his belt, and he's amazed at her swiftness. She lifts herself off his lap to undo the button and zipper, all with one hand. She has done this before, many times.

His cock springs free, needy and red, and she stares at it. He is immediately worried for obvious reasons. It's not like she inspected him there before choosing him. It's not like he's small, he guesses. He's not huge. But she's probably had bigger. He bites his lip and prays to anyone who's listening.

She looks back up to him, a little smile that makes him stupid. “Alright.”

He's offended. Alright? What does that mean? Is that good?

She is reaching into her breast pocket to retrieve a shiny plastic square, and he sighs shakily. She scoffs at him. “I'm not an idiot, cupcake. Jesus.”

She rips it open with her teeth, and she laughs when she feels his hands squeeze her hips. She reaches down and rolls it over him, and he can't help the groan that leaves him. Her hands are calloused from too much time on Pandora, shooting and strangling and torturing. But here she's slow and collected and totally not ripping his dick off, and it's amazing.

She's guiding his hands again, lifting up her skirt even higher, and holy fuck, she's not wearing underwear, of course she's not, of course. Dark hair trails up in a thin line, maintained but still somewhat wild. He is unbearably turned on. He watches her grip his cock and hold it in place.

“I'm going to blow your mind, kitten. Isn't that right?”

He nods, but she smacks him on the cheek, and some of the cold grease from her fingers is on his face now. She wipes the rest of it along his jaw and neck. “Use your words.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Another smack, and it's more playful now. It still stings.

“Y-Yes, Jackie.”

“Yes, Jackie, what?” She squeezes the base of his cock tight, and he chokes. Dear lord.

“Please fuck me, Jackie.”

She slowly sits down, the head pressing against her velvet opening, already so slick. She must get off to the power play, ownership, death threats. He already knew that, but right now, it makes everything so much sexier. He lifts his hips to help, and for a moment he thinks he shouldn't, she might get angry, but she moans when he does, taking more inside and arching her back.

She is tight, pulsing and god he can't think anymore. The sight of her like this, a few hairs askew on her forehead, legs quaking on either side of him. He's made her this way, so open and inviting. She's not scary like this, she is unmistakably amazing.

She falls to his lap and he tosses his head back into the chair, moaning loud to match hers. He's all the way in and she encases him like a beautiful glove. Her hands are over his now, gripping his clammy fingers tightly.

“Yeah,” she breathes out, and he'd say her face is a little red underneath that mask. “That's right, baby. You love it. This pussy drives people crazy, I know.”

He moans again as she leans forward onto him, chest pressed to his. The zippers and buttons on her blouse and coat are cold against his somewhat bare stomach. His dick lifts out of her a little in the position. She's smiling at him again, and he's going to lose it. “Go on, cupcake. Go to town.”

He's not sure what that invitation means. If he steps out of her boundaries, he could be a dead man. But if he doesn't do enough, he's in the same boat. He nervously lifts his hips again, pushing into her, and she's purring on him, and yeah, he's definitely going to to lose it. He grips her hips and moves her up and down with him.

“There we go,” she moans, resting her head under his chin. Her hair tickles his nose and lips, and he can't believe she's so loose now. She's melted into him, nearly dead weight. She wants him to do the work, and that's fine. Watching her moan and gasp under her breath was the best thing he'd ever seen, ever felt. He pushes in and out delicately, and she is okay with it, strangely enough. She holds onto the collar of his open shirt, flipping it about as he fucks her slowly. 

Soon he's feeling bold, now that she's quiet and turned to goo. He starts to pump faster, and she arches again, moaning into his ear and lifting off him. He feels cold without her as a blanket. Her lips are parted in a maddening way, and she grunts when he thrusts up hard.

“You got claws, kitten? I like that.”

From how today has been going, there are more things he knows she likes than dislikes. He thrusts deep, and she squirms, loudly crooning. She steadies herself with hands on his abdomen, bouncing lightly. He can't stop the moans now. He feels so perfect in her.

“Tell me how it feels,” she whispers, and he feels his whole body crave her.

“Perfect,” is the only thing that comes to his mind, to his mouth. She likes that answer. Her hands are slinking up his chest, resting at his collarbone, and he feels he may be strangled, but the lost look on her face tells it all. She is loving this.

He thrusts up harder, stronger, and she is slowly getting louder and more open. His legs are getting numb from her weight, and he knows he can't keep this up for much longer.

He gets the idea in his head, and he runs with it.

He slams his hips against her and sits up. She gasps, scrambling to grip his vest to keep from falling back. He moves his hands to cup her ass, and he feels that this, too, is perfect on her. He stands with her attached, difficult, because she's heavier than he thought, and she is clawing at him. Her nails are sharp and digging into his shoulders.

“What the fuck are you doing,” she hisses, and her eyes are fiery and disturbed. He thrusts into her as he holds her up, and she wraps her arms and legs around him for security. “I swear to god if you drop me-”

“Hold on,” he says into her ear, and she does. He only carries her a few short steps to her desk, kicking the chair out of the way and swiping the keyboard aside. He sets her down on the edge of it, and she's still giving him the killer eyes. He smiles, thrusts into her, and all is forgiven. She arches back against the desk, and grabs at nothing in particular. Her skirt is at her waist now, and he loves this view. He takes a leg in each hand, spreads her open, and gets to work.

She's crying for him, loud and uncaring. No one will hear her, but the acoustics of the room make everything even louder. He moves against her like a piston, in and out, hard, fast, and she is desperate to hold onto anything. He grips the edge of the desk above her head and pushes back against him. She is rocked back and forth on the desk rhythmically. He can't go on much longer with her looking like that.

He takes his hand off one of her legs and presses his thumb to the top of her opening, rubbing harshly at the nub of flesh. Her legs twitch up and she's practically screaming now, rolling her hips and asking for everything he's got. He thrusts into her quickly while he rubs in circles, and he squeezes her other leg to his hip tightly.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she huffs out, head tipped back. She's close and so is he, but like hell was he going to finish before her. That's how people die.

He starts to pump in a frenzy, and he prays that he doesn't finish, clenching his eyes shut tightly. He pushes her hard, deep, fingers flicking and pinching her.

She sits up suddenly, startling him, but she wraps her arms around his shoulders again, kissing him with teeth and tongue and want and need. She's pressing to him and whispering dirty things in his ear, and she's suddenly there, head thrown back and stock still, legs shaking. He pushes in hard, deep, as she rides out her orgasm silently, frozen in pleasure. He grips her legs in his arms and fucks her with reckless abandon, and the sight of her like this, what he's done to her, sends him into absolute devastation. He thrusts twice more before coming with a loud cry, stilling in her and milking it for all it's worth. He gasps for breath in the crook of her neck, and she allows it.

The moment of basking is longer than he expects. She sits there calmly, her legs hanging off the desk as he stands between them, head on her shoulder. He smells sweat and musk and sex, and her perfume is masked in his own scent now. He is proud of this, accomplished. He removes himself gently, and she twitches and sighs against him. He pulls the condom off, ties it and tosses it in the can by the desk. He fixes himself up, buttons his shirt and puts himself back in his pants. She watches him with tired eyes.

“What's your name?” she asks quietly, and she sounds genuinely interested in that moment. He stares at her, and he feels a pang in his chest. Had she not planned on asking?

“Rhys.”

She looks at him lazily and crosses her legs. She doesn't bother to fix her skirt. She is shameless, and that's what makes her so terrifying. She looks out the window at Elpis.

“What a stupid name.”


	3. Rhys Is Depressed (Also Fucks His Boss)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so long, holy shit like longer than the other 2 chapters combined haha. I couldn't really break it up.

Rhys is shooed out of her office, and she doesn't say much else to him. She's busy watching Elpis and the ships moving to and from. She looks so elegant, posture poised and bathed in blue. He tries to straighten himself as best as he can, slicking back his hair and calming his nerves.

When he gets to the elevator, he's still watching her silently, almost waiting for her to say something else. Smile, or joke, or even yell at him, but she doesn't. She doesn't even notice him. And he frowns.

He had wanted nothing more than to just blend in and not get into trouble, but he did, he was the chosen one, and suddenly he's wishing she would acknowledge him.

He presses the button to his floor, and as the doors close, he feels his body turn to jelly. He stares at himself in the reflection of the metal walls, and he realizes his face is a mess. The red of her lipstick is smeared over his lips and cheek, and there's some on his neck, and he's not sure how. The oil she wiped on him from his arm trails down his jaw and cheek. He scrubs at it, smearing it even more before wiping it away with his sleeve. He looks at his shirt, and that's a war zone too, ripped button and coffee and sweat and everything else. He sighs. The day just started and he's already wrecked.

The elevator dings, and as the doors open to his department, he is greeted by the faces of tens, no, hundreds of curious, terrified people. His eyebrows shoot up his face, and he stares back at them silently.

Vaughn careens out of nowhere and tackles him, sending him crashing to the ground. His arms are encasing him tightly and he's trapped in this vice. Rhys smiles weakly.

“H-Hey, man, calm down, I'm fine,” he murmurs, and the people staring at him move in closer, the crowd grouping together and circling him. They are inspecting him for wounds, blood, broken fingers, maybe. Vaughn squeezes him and he wheezes.

“Dude, are you fucking kidding me? I thought you were dead for sure.” He is still pressing all the air from Rhys' lungs. “Nobody comes back, man, nobody.”

He wants to say that isn't true, she said some of them are okay and go on their merry way, but then again, he hasn't been here long enough to know that. Vaughn is practically sobbing now, tears dripping into his already ruined shirt.

“Bro, no, it's okay, hey,” he forces out with his lack of oxygen. “Come on.”

Vaughn releases him, and Rhys starts to hack desperately. Everyone starts to back up a little, but they're still so awestruck.

“What happened in there?”

“How did you make it out?”

“What did you say?”

“Was there tons of dead bodies in there?”

Rhys waves them away as he stands back up, his back aching. “No, there wasn't. She just wanted to,” he thinks, “talk?”

Vaughn stands up and pushes him. “You're a bad liar, dude, stop it.”

“I don't want to talk about it here.”

The crowd becomes disinterested, still eyeing him strangely, and begins to disperse. Vaughn is still touching him, patting his back and nudging him, like he's making sure he's not broken, or a ghost. Rhys is smiling now, and he's sure he's grinning like an idiot.

“I've got so much to tell you, bro.”

Vaughn's face suddenly matches his, dopey and starry eyed.

This was the reason he had a roommate, he thinks to himself. Other than only having to pay half for everything, he just needs someone to talk to in an intimate personal way. Gossip was always a flaw of his, but Vaughn was an enabler. They'd spend all night talking shit, and all day for that matter. It was great just having someone who knew exactly what you meant, what you felt, whenever you needed them.

He spends a long portion of the night telling his tale, and Vaughn paces the living room, arms flying up dramatically. He doesn't believe him at first, it's too impossible. But the longer he goes on, the quieter Vaughn gets, the more time he spends with his hands in his hair, mortified.

“Dude,” is all he starts to say after a while, unable to think of anything substantial. Rhys agrees.

“I know.”

He's exhausted when he finishes the story, and Vaughn needs to excuse himself to let it set in.

He wasn't one to brag about sexual conquest, since he didn't really have any, but this wasn't like that. Of course he felt proud being the only one to come out of that office still breathing, being the only one to see his boss like that and live to talk about it, but he felt weird.

He lays up at night, staring at the ceiling. Elpis lit up his room, but not like it did in her office. It didn't bathe him in beauty and stardust, it was dull and barely there. It hasn't quite settled in, that he's so very lucky to be alive. It makes his stomach hurt, but he can't stop thinking about it.

He can't stop thinking about her.

When he closes his eyes, he feels her strong murderous hands on him, pushing him down and taking him as her own. He belonged to her now, and in a way, she was his.

He rolls over on his side, his heart beating angrily. He remembers her eyes memorizing him like he was new tech, a new toy. He was, and he'd admit it any day of the week. It was thrilling, completely horrifying, but exciting and wonderful all the same.

If he could only do it again.

The next few days are a rush. Everyone who sees him gives him a pat on the back, and he's sore by the end on the day, hunched over and stinging. He gets a few fruit baskets, even, from his direct supervisors. He wants to think they realized what a valuable employee he is, after almost losing him, but it's probably just because they're so amazed with the whole thing. And it is amazing.

He's happy as a clam the first few weeks. Everything is great, and he's feeling so alive. His brush with death gives him enthusiasm, energy, optimism. He got out alive, and he's doing things to the fullest. His reports are always on time, always neat and to the T. He gets a new wardrobe, cleans up that pit of an apartment, even gets his arm worked on like he'd meant to so long ago.

And then a few months go by, and he feels it. 

Depression.

He starts to slow down off the high, the adrenaline had run its course and now he's empty.

His life looks so boring, now. Nothing is new, nothing makes him excited. He goes to work every day, and nothing happens. He works and works, and for what? He goes home to a boring apartment, and plays video games and doesn't do anything. Vaughn tries to get him to go out, maybe go to a bar and meet girls, but he can't bring himself to do it. He sits alone at home, curled in the window, watching Elpis.

He thinks about it, and it makes him upset.

Months and months roll by, and he feels his life will always be at a standstill. 

He sits at his desk, flipping through reports scattered about, eyes heavy and uninterested. His cubicle looks as unorganized and disgusting as he feels, and he's almost at home in it. He types absentmindedly on his tablet, going through the motions.

And then he hears a ding. Elevator doors open, and shoes are clicking.

Clicking.

He stops and stares straight ahead. He slowly opens up his comm, and the date reads back at him.

May 8th.

He sucks in a breath sharply. He didn't think it had been so long, but he'd been in a daze, sleeping through life too long to even pay attention. His eyes are wide and his mechanical hand is in his hair.

There's no way she'd pick him a second time, no. He was a fluke, a real miracle. His throat is dry, and he can't think straight. He wished, god he did, that it would go his way. She'd come right to his cubicle and curl that manicured finger at him seductively, and she'd make him hers permanently.

The clicking is drawing near, and he remembers his cubicle is a dump. He scrambles to throw everything on the ground, swiping his arm across the desk. He sits up straight and puts his elbows on the table, hands locked together. Smooth, Rhys, smooth.

She's there in his door again, and he knows he is flush with anxiety, his hair a mess. But then, suddenly, she's passing him. She turns her head to look at him, and gives him a wink that makes his whole body jolt in desire.

And then she's gone.

Rhys feels his knees start to shake in his chair, and both of his hands are in his hair now, trying to steady his breathing.

She doesn't want him this time.

He clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. What was he thinking? Of course it was going to be like this. Why did he even get his hopes up? It's not like they were together, never were. She probably didn't even remember his name. He wasn't as good as the others before him. He wasn't anything special.

He listened to the office, quiet and murmuring. He tries to get back to work, but he can only stare down at the mess of papers and folders strewn about on the floor. He hurts, but he shouldn't even feel like that. What an idiot.

He hears the clicking start again, and he perks up, watching his door intently.

When she passes him again, she doesn't look at him. Her head is held high and posh, stride long and powerful. A few seconds later, there's a man following her, head cast down, his shoulders sloped.

Vasquez.

Rhys knows the look on his face is a mix between disgust and horror, and maybe that's what makes Vasquez look up at him. His eyes are wild and he's got sweat beading on his temples.

“Hey Rhysie, hey,” he whispers, and he gives a weird half frown, half smile. “Maybe I can get out of this like you did, huh? How'd you do it?” He laughs and it's like he's fighting back tears. “Wish me luck.”

He's gone, chasing after the boss dutifully to the elevator. When the doors close, he's grimacing and he can feel his eyes start to sting.

He wasn't going to cry over this. His throat is pulsing like he's going to throw up, and his lungs ache.  
This is all so fucked up.

The office is suddenly loud with everyone running around, spreading the word that Vasquez was summoned, _holy shit, I call his stapler_ , and here he was, silent and brooding like a child. He doesn't know how long he sits there like that, heavy and destroyed.

Vaughn slowly walks into his cubicle, looking at the mess on the ground. He frowns with worried brows. “Hey man, I know,” he's searching for the words, “I know you've been really upset about this, but-”

“No,” Rhys interrupts, standing up. “I'm not upset. This is so stupid, I'm not upset.”

Vaughn's frown deepens, and he bends down to start picking up the papers. He's gentle in his tone, slow in his movements. “Bro, we both know that isn't true.”

Rhys' hands are pressed to his desk as he leans over it, his head tilted down. He doesn't know what to say, because he doesn't know what he's feeling. Whatever it is, it's making him sick and dizzy.

“I don't like seeing you like this, man. You've been like this for so long, and it isn't healthy, none of it is.”

“You think I don't know that?”

Vaughn sighs. “I don't know how to help.”

“Me neither.”

They're silent while cleaning up, stacking papers and filing them away. When they're done, Rhys gives Vaughn a hug, which is immediately reciprocated ten fold, crushing his organs and probably breaking a rib.

“I want to go to that bar downtown, and you're coming with me, idiot.”

Rhys sighs through his nose. “I'll give it a shot.”

“We can find you a dominatrix.”

He smiles and punches Vaughn in the shoulder. “We can find you a blind girl.”

Vaughn laughs at him. “That's fine. She just needs to feel these abs and I'm in.”

He's patting Vaughn's back and shoving him out of his cubicle when the PA system hisses to life with a blip.

“Employee 8459-04, please make your way to the elevator for assignment.”

They freeze, and Vaughn turns to face him. His lips are drawn down deeply. “Isn't that you?”

Rhys barely finds it in himself to nod. Vaughn bites his lip.

“What do you think it is? Did you forget to file something?”

He wonders for a moment if he did. He had been a complete airhead the last few months, not caring if things got done anymore. He knows there were a few reports for HR that he had needed to send their way, but he thought he did those last month. “I don't know.”

They make their way to the elevator, and he hesitates before walking through. Vaughn gives him two nervous thumbs up and an awkward hopeful smile before the door shuts.

He swipes his ID badge,and the elevator registers him. It begins to go up, not giving him a floor number.

Oh.

He gulps, and is suddenly dumbstruck. He doesn't know what that means. He thinks it's good, okay, he's going to see her again, good, right, that's what he wanted. But it didn't make sense.

What about Vasquez?

He looks all around the metal box, just needing to move his eyes in thought. Was he being sent up for a threesome? He nearly laughs, and it comes out like a hiccup. No, she wouldn't do that. Vasquez wouldn't do that. 

This was weird. He hated it, all this not knowing stuff. He just wanted to be told how things worked and to be prepared for them, but this place was just a mystery and no one had any answers. 

He zones out the rest of the ride up. He doesn't want to keep speculating, it hurts his brain. Especially after the emotional turmoil he was just through, still is.

He reaches the top-top floor, and the doors open to those familiar waterfalls and busts. He steps through, takes a deep breath, and holds himself high.

He can do this, whatever it was.

But as he starts walking toward her desk, he knows something is wrong. Something is definitely wrong and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A few more steps forward, and he can see her clearly now, sitting at her desk with one leg swung over it. She is looking at something in her hand intently.

“Stop,” she says gently, and he does. She still hasn't looked at him yet, still inspecting whatever she's holding.

A gun.

He was already frozen in place from her command, but now he's like that for a good reason. No sudden movements, don't disobey.

She turns the gun in her hand, finger still on the trigger, and only then does he notice the smell of gunpowder. He trembles as she finally sets her eyes on him. He feels so small when she looks at him.

“You're a good boy,” she sighs, her other hand coming up under the gun to inspect the cartridge. “I didn't know how good of a boy you were.”

He's going numb from the strain of not moving, especially when his body wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. 

She looks different somehow. Her hair is out of place, not professional or even tasteful, just messy, and she was never messy. He can't see what she's wearing from where he stood, but it didn't look right. She is frowning, and he hates it.

“Look over there, kitten.”

She points her gun to the floor by her desk, and he sees it.

Blood. That's a lot of blood.

It's pooling and surrounding a black head of hair, toupee flopped over to reveal the weird skin flap underneath.

Wallethead.

“See that?” she asks quietly, and something is wrong with her voice. He nods for her softly. “That is what happens when you get handsy.”

He lets out a shaky breath. Oh god.

She is wiping her gun with a handkerchief, and it comes back red, looking at it with half lidded eyes and he's not sure what he needs to say to her.

“Jackie,” he forces out, and it doesn't sound bad in his ears. She looks over at him again, and he's wanted her to see him for so long.

“You're a good boy,” she repeats. He nods loyally, and she gets the smallest smile. It's working. “You know what I want, and you know how to do it right, don't you, kitten?”

He nods again, and her smile gets wider. He starts to smile too, and his stomach is filled with butterflies and bees. He missed this so damn much.

“You sure are something else, cupcake. A real weirdo,” she laughs. “But you got something I like. It doesn't hurt that you are really, really freaking cute.”

He must be glowing, because she's laughing even harder.

“Don't let that go to your head, baby. Can't have you turning into this asshole. Don't know what I was thinking, really. I knew he was garbage, but I thought that would have translated into some hot kinky shit. It didn't.”

The blood is starting to spill over the steps, and he tries to contain the sickness settling in him. He was always pretty squeamish.

“Aw, you feeling sick, kiddo? Then you probably shouldn't see the mess back here. It's all brains and organs and I think he shit himself. You know, you always think brains are going to come out all pink, but it's actually gray! Man, fuck the movies.”

He hasn't missed the fact that she's suddenly talking a lot. He smiles at her, and she smiles back. She stands up to holster her gun, and he sees it.

Her blouse is ripped down to the third button, exposing part of her chest and her silky lacy bra. There's blood sprayed across it, and it's even on her neck and face. He feels angry and sick and sad, and it shows easily on his face. She watches him with calculating eyes as she steps down to his level.

“It's like some people don't know who they're fucking with, you know? That was a joke by the way. Don't look so upset.”

He purses his lips, and she's right in front of him now. Without her heels on, she's even shorter, nearly half a foot difference. She touches his arm and squints at him. Rhys can smell her now, and her perfume is mixed with coppery blood.

“Wait a second, are you,” she begins curiously, and he freezes against her, looking anywhere but at her. “Are you jealous, baby?”

He furrows his brows and his cheeks are red when she pushes them with the palms of her hands, squishing his face. “You care about me,” she sing songs, and he feels so weird, so good, so messed up. Of course he was jealous. Would he admit that he cared about her? Maybe. He's not really sure what this is. He just wants to see her more than every six months. So yeah.

“You let him do that?” He asks, pointing at her shirt, and he immediately regrets it. Her smile is gone, and she takes her hands back from his face. No, please don't stop.

“I didn't let him do anything,” she barks, and he shudders back a little.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean,” he swallows, “I mean, you just seem like you wouldn't let it get that far.”

She still looks offended, and tugs at her ruined blouse. “I shouldn't have.”

It's a little awkward now, and all he wants to do is fix it. “I'm sorry,” he says again.

She huffs. “Nah, I can't stay mad at you. Look at that face.” She pinches his cheek and gives him a playful smack. “Come on.”

She turns on her heels and walks to a side of the office he hasn't seen yet, metal doors that resembled the elevator opening for her slowly. In the new room he sees a lounge with plush chairs and a couch, tables with snacks. There's a coffee machine and a kitchen with fancy appliances, steely and untouched.

“Welcome to my lounge, kitten.”

He wonders why they didn't have sex in here in the first place. It's a lot nicer than on a hard desk or crushed into a little chair. Not even here huge ugly monster chair, just a little guest chair. The couch is deep, and almost like a bed. It could easily fit 6 or 7 people.

“I know what you're thinking,” she says over her shoulder as she walks to the other side of the room. There's another door there, probably to a bathroom of some sort. “You're wondering who decorated this piece of shit room. God it looks awful. I'll tell you, it wasn't me. But I don't use it enough to care, so I never changed it.”

He can't help the smile blooming on his face again. He watches the sashay of her hips and the soft flopping sound of her bare feet on marble, and he's smitten. He watches her as she walks into the bathroom, and can see her looking in the mirror from where he stands. She growls loud and high pitched.

“He fucked up my hair!”

He takes a seat in the middle of the couch and continues to watch her silently. She rips all the bobby pins from her messy bun and it falls down in waves over her shoulders. Her streak of gray is long, all the way to the tips, and is stark in the deep textured brown. Her bangs are still coiffed to the side. With her hair down, she looks more open, more beautiful.

He immediately thinks he may be the only person in this whole space station to see her with her hair down, and he suppresses a moan.

She turns back to him, wash cloth wiping away the blood on her face and neck. She sees him smiling like an idiot, and she smirks. “You're obsessed with me, aren't you, cupcake?”

He doesn't answer, his lips tight and thin. His leg twitches.

“I don't like liars, kiddo. Go on, say it. You were so talkative before, don't get scared.”

“Yes,” he answers. She shifts her hips to the side like she does when she's unimpressed. He shivers.

“You can do better than that. Why are you so obsessed with me?”

He knows she's doing it to mess with him, that's what she does. He also thinks she just wants to hear how amazing she is from someone other than herself. Maybe she just needs someone to talk to, right now, after what just happened.

“Is it my luscious lips? Maybe my sensational eyes? Tits? Ass?”

He wonders why she thinks its her body that makes him so obsessed.

“No,” he answers, and she narrows her eyes. Oh shit, wait. “N-No, you're gorgeous, but no.”

She gives him an interested look, and makes her way over. Rhys leans back into the couch, his face pink, and he's a little dizzy. She stands above him, and he gasps when she slides into his lap, hands rubbing at his shoulders. Her eyes are right in his, and they are picking him apart piece by piece.

“Tell me, then.”

He takes a deep breath, and she smiles, waiting. His hands rest on her hips lovingly, and he gets up the nerve. It's not like she doesn't already know, isn't going to torture him until he says it.

“I like the way you smile.”

Her eyebrows shoot up her face and she sputters out a laugh, gripping his shoulders tighter. “Are you serious?” she snorts, “Holy shit.”

“Don't laugh,” he says, but he's smiling anyway. She is giving him an incredulous look.

“Okay, lover boy, you're going to make me sick,” she pushes him back into the couch, and she towers over him. He's face to face with her chest, and suddenly he's sick too.

Vasquez's blood is caked on her blouse, still wet, and dark. It looks gooey and smells metallic and warm. He feels his stomach churn and puts his hands up in defeat. “S-Sorry, I,” his tongue is thick in his mouth, and he feels his throat start to seize.

She looks down at him and scoffs. “Really, kitten? There's barely any on me. Hold on.”

She shrugs her coat off onto the floor, and he watches her unbutton the rest of her shirt. Her bra looks expensive, just like everything else about her, dark and exquisite. She untucks the shirt from her skirt and it joins her coat. She drops her arms, and her breasts press together gently. “You didn't even see my tits last time, did you, cupcake?”

He shakes his head, and suddenly they're in his face, his nose pressed into her sternum. He breathes her in, and it's magnificent. He feels her arms go behind her back, and he hears the pop of clasps and he knows he's in heaven when the silky cups give way to silky skin. She uses her hands to press them harder against his cheeks and he's going to pass out.

“Alright, calm down there, hot stuff. At least I know you're a tits man now.”

He boldly wraps his arms around her hips, pulling her taught against him. He feels her tense a little, but she's laughing and squeezing her breasts to his face harder, squishing his cheeks. “You look stupid.”

He might look stupid, but he could die happy. Not that he wanted to, really, please don't, there's still a gun right under his arm.

He pulls away with a long sigh, finally getting a good look at them. Her breasts are untouched, unmarred, like an airbrushed model. They're somewhat large, but not annoyingly so. Her nipples are a dark rosy hue, like tender meat. They're standing to attention and so is his dick. God.

They don't match the rest of her. With her clothes on, he finally gets to see her skin up close, scars on her arms and shoulders, crawling up her collarbone. There's nicks and cuts, nothing big, but there are just so many. There's a thick tattoo circling her wrist, and it looks like she got it on Pandora, tribal.

She pushes her breasts up and together, making them look bigger. She has a devilish look, and he thinks that's just what she always looks like. “You can touch them, you know.”

He doesn't need to be told twice.

As soon as he has them in his grasp, she has an open mouth grin, arching into him and holding onto his thighs. They're unbearably soft, and each one is a perfect handful. He kisses them gently, looks up and locks eyes with her. She looks like she is barely containing herself, huffing and biting her lip. He is astonished.

When the kisses dust over one of her nipples, she is seizing in his lap, throwing her head back and letting her hair whip around her. He presses his lips more firmly, sucking, and she's all but gone. She's moaning for him hard, swinging an arm up to grasp at his hair, pulling it from its style with great force. It feels great.

He mouths at them until she is shaking and curling her toes. He bites at them softly, doesn't know what will make the hand in his hair start to rip it out. From the way she moves and cries, he's doing everything right.

He slowly shifts her over onto the couch, laying her on her back as he continues to abuse her chest. Her hair is spread out in wild tresses, arms lifeless by her head. She is a goddess, rough and crazy.

“It's good that you're a tits man,” she sighs as he detaches with a wet pop. “I like that you know what I like.”

His gut is warm as he presses his hips to her thighs, and she lifts them easily for him, spread and ready, wanting. He leans forward to kiss her, hot and incredible. He breathes against her as she moans.

“I like that you like-”

“Okay shut up.”

She kisses him stupid and reaches into her coat beside the couch, grabbing a condom and shoving it in his hand. He kisses her back hard, biting her lip like she had done before, marveling in the surprised whine it earns him. He doesn't want to break away as he tries to tear off his pants, but he has to, and she laughs at him as he struggles.

He rips open the little square, taking the plastic and rolling it over his painfully hard cock. She wiggles impatiently, her heels pressing at his shoulders. When he's ready, he lifts her hips up to meet his, slides her skirt up to her waist, and pushing forward.

She claws at the cushions beneath them and growls like an animal. The sound goes straight to his dick and he moans, feeling her pulse around him. He slides in farther, and she reaches out to grab his tie, tugging it down harshly. He loves the look on her face, desperate and wanting. She wanted him.

He's fully seated in her, and she rolls her hips with a loud moan. He grips her hips tight, and for a moment he thinks he'll leave bruises, but he knows she's tougher than that. Her skin is thick and used to the abuse, but still soft and pliant in his fingers. She presses back again urgently, and he starts moving.

The thrusting starts of faster than last time, eager. He's waited six months to feel this, six months of yearning and wracking his brain. He kisses her as he thrusts hard, jostling them and making her cry into his mouth. He gladly accepts it, begs for more.

Her hands are crawling up along his chest, tugging at his collar, fabric clenched in her fists. She rests her elbows on his shoulders, hands ruffling through his hair. He turns to putty.

She is wet hot sin, and he sinks into her over and over. Her legs spread wider around him, giving in and letting him take her however he likes. He grinds and thrusts hard. He knows she will need more than that to get off. She's a very complicated woman. 

Her eyes are glossy, mouth parted to pant and whine. With every thrust, she shifts back and forth over her hair, wild and all over the place. He slowly leans down to press a kiss to her nipple, and she nearly screams out, arching sharply. Dear god, she is a writhing mess of nerves and agonizing beauty.

He kisses and bites and sucks, and she's all his, spread open and shaking. Her eyebrows are furrowed together as he watches him nip and lave attention onto her pert sensitive nubs, an intense look in her eyes. He thrusts deep, gives a rough bite with a roll of his tongue, and she turns to stone, head crashed back and mouth open wide. Her thighs tremble around him, and her tight heat tenses, squeezing him. Oh fuck.

Her hands fist in his hair and pulls hard, and he definitely loses a few strands. He kisses her chest wetly as he thrusts only a few more times before giving in. His cry is muffled in her sweet skin.

There is the sound of panting for a long moment, and they're stuck together with sweat, clammy and hot. Her hands haven't released his hair, and he's okay with it. He's hugged right to her chest, listening to her heart beat loud and fast as she comes down from her high. It makes him smile.

She breathes hard, hair in tangles and clinging to her forehead. She is silent for too long, eyes hazy and searching for something in the ceiling. He feels he should say something, not sure what. He opens his mouth, but she's quick.

“Shh,” she purrs, tugging his hair gently, closing her eyes. He is lost watching her, mesmerized. His head rises and falls with her chest as she evens out her breathing, and it's lulling him to sleep. He blinks slowly, and she somehow knows it, even with her eyes shut. “Don't you fall asleep on me, kitten.”

He sighs against her quietly, and his arms slowly slide up her thighs and to her ribs, wedging them under her. It's almost an embrace, and he feels fuzzy.

Who knows how long they laid like that. He nearly thought that she was the one who fell asleep, but no, her eyes were barely open, still staring at the white expanse of the ceiling. He wonders what goes on in that head, what she feels. She is an enigma that he couldn't possibly comprehend.

“You're something else,” she finally says, and he knows he must have a stupid look on his face. Receiving compliments (is it a compliment?) from her is the highlight of his day, month, maybe year. He squeezes her tight.

“Thank you,” he murmurs in her skin. She pushes him, and he starts to sit up, finally pulling out of her. She shivers in disgust, fluids and plastic cold. She pushes him back harder, and he falls back on his butt. A groan escapes her as she slides off the couch, pulling her skirt down and picking up her clothes.

“Alright, can't fuck around all day, I've got a company to run.”

She starts to dress, and he fixes himself as well, standing to dispose of the condom in the bin in the kitchen area. When he turns back to her, she's making her way to the bathroom, hands in her hair, trying to fix it as best she can. She nods at him curtly.

“Baby, can you call a janitor up here for me? There's still a dead guy out there. Much appreciated. Ciao!”

Wait, no, they were done already? No! He takes a nervous step toward her, reaching out.

“Jackie, I-”

She frowns at him, eyebrows arched, waiting. He swallows the lump in his throat, standing up straight and tall. He takes a deep strong breath.

“I want to see you again.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” she grins, gathering her hair up behind her head, “You obsessed little weirdo.”

“Please, Jackie, I'm serious.”

She tilts her head and looks down her nose at him. His confidence is waning, and he shifts his feet.

“Yeah, alright.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I don't have to wait six months, do I?”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Look, get me the damn janitor, and I'll think about it.”

He's grinning like an absolute moron, and she just groans loudly, turning back to the bathroom. He is giddy, whole body alight.

“I adore you!”

“I know! Jesus, get the hell out of here!”

He practically cartwheels out the door to the lounge, fists pumping and smiling so hard it hurt. It's practically a date! Maybe? Soon? He's not even sure when it'll happen, but it'll happen!

He leans against the door and sighs. Everything was going to be amazing.

Then he remembers there's a dead body a few feet away from him, and the smell hits him right in the gut.

He turns and vomits into the waterfall.


	4. Rhys Goes on a Date (And Fucks His Boss)

Vaughn tells him he looks like a daydreaming schoolgirl, and Rhys knows he's right.

It was another night of spinning his tale, complete with junk food and beer. There was lots of exaggerated hand gestures and yelling and skepticism, ending in drunken stupors and lethargy. Rhys had slept better that first night than he had since it all started, dreams of streaked hair and a sweet poison voice. Memories caressed him and replayed in his little cyber brain, and everything was good again.

The waiting game was one he was willing to play. Okay, so he had his comm open and ready at all moments of his day, putting it under his pillow at night as if it would make those dreams come true. He was not going to be consumed by need this time, he knows that it is coming. He isn't sure when, or even how, but it was coming. It makes him anxious, in a good way, like counting down the days to your birthday. 

It makes him a smiling, giddy wreck.

It makes Vaughn roll his eyes and grimace.

He's worried for Rhys, and for good reason, of course. He kindly reminds Rhys that he is still the only one to live through “The Summoning” and that there's still time to change that. It doesn't get to him.

As intimidating and frightful as she is, and knowing he could be shot dead without any warning, he thinks, or rather hopes, she would not follow through on those threats. They're more playful than anything, or maybe he's just gotten used to it. Maybe he's completely in denial and can't even see his own imminent demise. Either way, he finds them somewhat endearing.

It's on a Tuesday afternoon, he remembers vividly, when he is contacted, his comm buzzing and beeping to life. For a moment he thinks it's Vaughn, since it was around lunch time and that's when Vaughn always called him, so he sits back and sips his lukewarm coffee from earlier that morning. But then a dangerous feminine voice greets him.

“Are you normally this lazy?”

Rhys scrambles in his chair, knocking over his mug and planting his hands on the table loudly. Employees around him peak over the cubicle walls curiously. He shrinks back into his seat as she laughs quietly, and he's looking up at the security camera on the wall adjacent to his desk.

“I should fire you, you insufferable idiot. Think you can just mess around because you're the head honcho's squeeze? You're too special to work now?”

“N-No, ma'am,” he whispers looking forlornly down at his spilled coffee and ruined reports, “I thought you were someone else.”

“You weren't waiting like a little lapdog for my call?” He had been. “Disappointing.”

“I'm sorry, please, I'm listening.”

She's silent for a moment, then hums softly. He twitches impatiently. Even when she's just in his ear, he's a mess.

“I was wondering what you were doing right now, but I can see that it's nothing. Maybe thinking we can go out.”

“Out?”

“Yes, please keep up. Fucking in my office is nice and all, but I like variety. I'm a complex woman, after all.” He can practically hear her cross her legs, and he feels himself get warm thinking about it.

“W-What did you have in mind?”

“Have you ever been wined and dined, pumpkin? I'm thinking you haven't.”

He gulps. This is the date he'd been dreaming of.

“No, I haven't.”

“Well lucky you! I'm already here. Don't make me wait.”

“Wait, wh-”

The comm clicks off, and he's standing there with wobbly knees and sweaty palms.

He's running to the elevator as fast as his legs can carry him, and the office is at a standstill as they watch. His hand slams on the button to the Hub of Heroism and tries to compose himself, but fails. She's probably taking him to some ritzy restaurant, and he's dressed like, well, not like that. At least he hadn't spilled coffee on himself this time.

He's nearly down to the shopping district when the elevator stops with a jolt, making him grasp the metal rails along the wall.

“Elevator override,” a mechanical voice rings out to him, and he feels the elevator start to rise instead. A new floor number blinks onto the screen, and he knows he's never been to this floor. There isn't a department for that floor, but it was near the top, so he was sure it was important.

When the doors open, she's right there, her hips shifted to one side and looking over at a group of aristocrats. She doesn't notice he's there, so he coughs into his fist weakly.

Her head turns to him suddenly and gives him an amused look. Rhys notices her hair looks even more prim and proper than it normally was, her eyes dazzling with shimmery makeup.

“You thought I'd meet you in the goddamn cafeteria? Really, pumpkin?”

“Sorry, you said we were going to eat and-”

“Darling, you don't know anything about this place, do you?”

Rhys shuts his mouth, shaking his head gently. He wasn't about to argue with her. She gestures over to the single large building, surrounded by green plants and bright alien flowers. “That's the nicest place we've got up here. A real secret, so don't go running your mouth, got it?”

He nods this time, staring at all the people crowding in and around it, expensive suits and bad hair. He looks down at his clothes again, tugging at his vest. “I'm not dressed for this.”

“Shut up” is all she says as she starts to walk toward the restaurant, and he follows timidly. The clicking of her heels draws the attention of the higher ups chatting near the entrance, but they aren't looking at her, they're looking at Rhys, and he's nervous and probably sweaty looking. He messes with his hair quickly, and he isn't sure if he's making it better or worse. The men are frowning deeply, disapproving, and he feels so small and out of place. He doesn't belong here. He wants to voice his concern to her, but she isn't bothered, so it shouldn't bother him. Plus, she doesn't care. 

They pass through the giant double doors, and he's awestruck by the sight of crystals and stained glass, tall ceilings with soft lights. He is standing in a work of art. Carved amber wood and ornate marble accents surround them warmly, inviting. His eyes are so used to cold metal and bright fluorescent, everything looks dark. The restaurant smells delightful, things he's never smelled before, from dishes he's never hear of. His stomach reminds him that he's still nervous, but also hungry. It's a nauseating feeling.

“The table is ready for you, madam,” the maitre d' says as soon as they enter. There's no fear on the gentleman's face, unlike some of the other patrons and wait staff nearby, their eyes round and cautious. He bows to her as she leads herself to the table, with Rhys right at her heels.

She ends up at an unassuming table by the window, which spanned an entire wall, just like her office, far out of the way and dark. There's a beautiful view of the garden, alien vegetation cleanly maintained and artistically placed. She sits down, watching Rhys join her, and the table is almost immediately adorned with a bottle of both red and white wine, and she smiles a genuine smile that makes his heart jump.

“I didn't know what you liked,” she purrs, and he's taken aback by her thoughtfulness. She rests her elbows on the table and leans forward. “But I was thinking you're a white wine kind of guy. Am I right?”

“I don't drink wine,” he answers quietly. All he drinks is the cheapest beer he can find. He drinks to get drunk, not for taste or quality. She's laughing at him as he knew she would.

“Well we'll start you on white, then. Very light and sweet. Just like you, pumpkin.”

His face is as red as the wine in front of him, and his hands fidget and clench. The maitre d' starts to reach for the bottle to pour them a glass, but she slaps his hand and takes it herself.

“I got this, Rudy. You just make sure those idiots in the kitchen are on their toes.”

He leaves with a polite nod, almost with a smile, and Rhys knows he's used to her. That makes this a little less awkward, knowing at least someone here understands. She pours the drink into a beautiful crystal glass and slides it over. He thanks her and smells it before putting it to his lips. It's different, like beer except smoother, richer, more flavorful. It's almost sour. He can see himself drinking a lot of it, which would probably be a bad idea. He isn't sure if getting drunk with this woman would be a death sentence, or a really fantastic time. He sips it as she watches intently, gauging him for a reaction, as if he wasn't already being scrutinized by everyone else in the restaurant.

“I-It's really good,” he says, and she leans back approvingly, pouring herself the red wine. She tosses it back like he tosses back his beers, and he grimaces. He thought wine was supposed to be enjoyed slowly and elegantly, like they do on TV. She probably doesn't even taste it. Her shimmery eyes inspect the glass as she licks her lips carefully, not wanting to mar her lipstick.

“It's alright,” she hums, but she clearly enjoyed it, because she's pouring another full glass. He should be more worried about her getting drunk than himself. “Better than the swill you get anywhere else, though.”

It's silence after that. Rhys isn't sure what to say to her. Normally on a date you'd talk about work or how things are at home, but she's the president of the goddamn space station he's always lived on. He's as boring as dirt compared to her, and his insignificance would resound in anything he says.

She's sipping the wine now as she looks around the room. She's searching for something, and she finds it after a moment, because she smiles a little over the lid of the glass. He almost wants to turn and see what she's looking at, but he doesn't want to be rude or nosy.

“So, darling,” she purrs, not breaking her line of sight, “How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty seven,” he answers. If she wasn't going to look at him, he may as well look at her without her condescending eyes keeping him from lingering too long. Her eyes were alight, with what he didn't know. Whatever she was looking at brought fire to them, long and fluttery eyelashes drooping dangerously, almost erotically, like a look a supermodel gives to the camera. He thinks maybe she's flirting with someone over his shoulder.

He tenses with that thought. She could do whatever she wanted, he wasn't her boyfriend. He didn't own her, didn't even have a relationship with her. She could flirt with anyone and he couldn't say anything, but he felt like he should, like he was allowed to. Whatever he'd gotten himself wrapped up in, it was deeper than it should be. He knows he doesn't have any hold on her, any influence, and yet he wants to so badly he can taste it over the expensive wine on his tongue.

“Cute,” draws his attention back to her, “I'm not about to tell you how old I am. I have to keep up that devilish mystery about me.”

Rhys sips more of his wine silently. She makes him confused and frustrated and happy all at once. He's just her plaything, tagging along with a yes ma'am no ma'am, and it drives him crazy that he can't be more. He has to ask himself why he even wants to be more, why he thinks this is okay. This isn't healthy or normal, but his nerves are shattered and his head clouded with visions of gorgeous legs and hot breath in his ear. He shouldn't want anything to do with this, but he finds himself running back to her every time. He knew it would be like that, but he was just so caught up in it, so blind with adoration, he couldn't even see himself falling to pieces.

She's gnawing gently at her bottom lip, and all he sees is suggestive desire, and it's not for him. He frowns and feels his blood boil, feels his resolve slipping. He starts to turn his head, but she stops him by holding up a single long finger.

“Shh,” she whispers, long and gentle like a lullaby. She's still not looking at him, and it's absolutely maddening. Rhys is shaking by now, a mixture of jealousy and embarrassment, and he feels his anger tearing its way up his throat, fighting its way out his mouth.

“Please look at me,” he growls out as quietly as he can, muted.

She does look at him, surprised eyebrows arching high and eyes questioning deeply. He feels naked as she scans him for information, like she's the one with the echo eye.

“I'm looking at you,” she replies, her voice still soft, and he feels he should almost give in. She looks unusual like this, loose and relaxed. She is not impatient as she waits for him, and his chest thumps hard in regret, no, not regret. He shouldn't regret being assertive. His hand runs through his hair shakily.

“You said I was something else,” he starts, and his confidence ebbs away quickly, and he can feel himself shrink smaller and smaller under her gaze. No, stop. “Did you mean it?”

She's silent again, taking her lips from the glass slowly. He sighs, low and quiet.

“I know you lied about others making it out alive.”

For the first time, he think she may be blushing, but he can't tell behind the mask. She's making a curious face that he can't place, anger maybe, shame from getting caught in a lie, but whatever it is, he kind of likes it, even if he's kind of mad himself. But she's smiling in that way that kills him, a smile unlike herself. She looks like she doesn't know what to say, and wonders if that's the face he makes all the time too.

“You're special, that's for sure,” and she pours herself another glass of wine. He only realizes then that she's drained the entire bottle. “Truthfully, I don't know what made me not want to kill you. Maybe because you weren't annoying, or that you hadn't pissed yourself. That's hard to come by nowadays.”

He frowns, but she's suddenly reaching across the table to grasp his metal hand, fingers entwining with his and tapping her fingernails loudly against his fake knuckles. She tosses back the last of her drink and sets the glass down.

“I like you a lot, cupcake. I really do.”

His breath hitches in his windpipe and he's still, red blossoming on his face for the second time today. Rhys tries to find words again, but he watches her silently reach down to her side, and he hears something unlatch, a slick sound of metal on leather.

She pulls the gun from her holster and rests the butt of it against his metal arm, aiming it just to the side of his shoulder, right where she was looking before he got upset. He holds his breath, knowing that even the smallest movement and the bullet will rip through his very expensive extremity. He notices there's a long cylinder on the muzzle of the gun this time. Her tongue peeks out from behind her red lips and her blue eye clenches shut. She takes a deep breath, and the shot rings out, a roaring bang. He flinches hard, his ears buzzing painfully. The recoil makes his arm vibrate.

Rhys expects screaming, for everyone to run out in a terror, but all he hears is silence, followed by the slamming of dishes against a table. He turns quickly to see the body of a bald man slumped into his lunch, his own wine glass toppled over.

The restaurant continues its hustle and bustle like nothing happened, people chatting away and the clinking of silverware against china loud. He watches as two waiters immediately descend on the man, wiping up blood and hefting the body over their shoulders.

Rhys turns back to her with what he was sure was a look of horror, and she's unscrewing the silencer with her napkin, looking it over. He's shaking and losing his mind.

“W-What the-”

“I've been trying to get that shithead out in the open for months. He's been hiding away at home ever since he screwed me over. I got a tip he was coming here, and thought I'd bring you out on a date while I was at it. I like to kill two birds with one stone, you know.”

He stares as she reaches for the white wine now, pouring out as much as she can fit in the glass, and immediately downing it. She slams the glass on the table and kisses the back of her hand, getting the wine off her lips.

“You're cute, and I'm taking you home.”

The food is brought to their table, without him having ordered anything, and she gets to work on it, pouring another glass. He, however, is stuck in a stupefied daze.

Afterwords, he thinks it's strange to be so drunk this early in the day, but she's a strange woman, a sensual drunk, of course she is, playing footsie and whispering dirty things that even he couldn't imagine. She had gone through both wines, and ordered a third, and then a fourth, even though Rhys had tried to persuade her not to. Either he wasn't good with persuasion, or she was immune to it.

When she stands to leave, she straightens her clothes right and proper, but takes off her shoes before walking out. Rhys watches her carefully for any stumbles or signs she might puke or fall over, but she's refined in her stride as always. He hovers close to her just in case, hands open and ready to catch a falling body.

They get to the elevator, and as soon as the doors close, she jumps him hard, crashing against the wall and slamming his hips into the railing. He gives a pained cry, but it's sucked up into her mouth as she tries to kiss him to death. She's already torn off his vest before he understands what's happening.

He shakily reaches for the button to her office, but remembers there is no button for her office.

“Uh, I-I don't think we should-,” he gets out, but she's attacking his neck with nips and bites and he is lost in everything about her. Rhys feels her hand reach out and touch a button on the interface and it beeps, but nothing happens. They aren't moving.

“A-Are we stuck?”

“I locked the doors.”

He whimpers as she rakes her sharp fingers down his open chest, having unbuttoned his shirt without him even knowing. Her mouth is at his ear, tonguing, sucking, biting, and he's a wreck in her hands. The warmth in his belly spreads everywhere, and the blood drains south. His shirt is firmly ripped from his shoulders, and when he's pressed back against the wall, the cold metal makes him gasp. 

He knows she's drunk out of her mind, even if she doesn't show it. Nobody goes through four bottles of wine and doesn't feel anything. He knows it's wrong to do this, be doing anything with her while she's so inebriated. Her movements as languid and sloppy, but more forceful than what he's seen of her so far, and her hands are hard, clawing and tearing and bruising. She's a dirty drunk and a mean one.

Rhys tries to push her away slowly, but she's got his wrists trapped in her hands and she squeezes tight, painful. She looks desperate and furious, but he pipes up.

“We can't, y-you're drunk.”

“If you don't fuck me in the next minute I am going to wring your neck, Rhys.”

It's the first time she's ever said his name, and it's a warning through clenched teeth. He finds it fitting, even if it is alarming. Rhys is still trying to figure out what to do when she undoes his belt and yanks the zipper down, fishing his dick out. Of course it's hard, but with the threat of death on him yet again, it starts to sag. Her grip is binding, and he cries out shamelessly when she jerks it back to life with only a single tug. She's already got the condom out, without him even noticing, and rolling it on harshly. He feels like he could drop to the floor any moment, legs quaking and body heavy.

She grabs his tie, like she tends to do, and yanks him forward, bent down to her level. Green and blue eyes are fiery and insane, and right in his face. He breathes shakily, the smell of her perfume driving him mad. Suddenly she turns and drags Rhyd to the other side of the elevator, pulling him forward to trap herself against the wall. Her ass presses against his naked cock, and he gulps as she rolls her hips. She is irresistible in every way.

“Go on,” she slurs, tugging on his tie again, hitting his head against the metal wall in front of them. “Do it.”

Rhys slowly slides her skirt up until it's bunched up at her waist, and lets his hands massage her pert cheeks. His fingers pull her apart, looking down between them as well as he can with his tie still grasped in her hand. He guides himself to her opening, and she spreads her legs apart with a sigh, lifting herself up on her tiptoes.

When he pushes in, she lets out a loud cry, head thrown back and high in octave. Her body nearly moves away from him into the wall, her other hand grasping at the gold rail desperately. He holds her hips in place as he impales her, and she is loving every moment of it. Rhys grits his teeth at the sight of her, her back dipping and arching, legs shaking against his own. He rests his forehead against the wall as he goes all the way in, engulfed in sweet wet power.

Long manicured fingers are clawing at his thigh, pressed against hers. He listens to her gasp for breath, a shrill whine leaving her as he pulls out and thrusts back in. It makes her careen and moan loud again, and she is gnashing teeth and greedy hands.

“Harder! Jesus Christ!” is yelled up at him, and he knows this is going to be dirty.

He hugs an arm around her waist, thrusts up as hard as he can, and she screams. He's never heard her be so loud, so absolutely uncaring of her volume. He knows this elevator can't possibly be sound proofed, and wonders if everyone outside that restaurant can hear them, can see the elevator shaking from each hard thrust he gives her, driving her into the wall. Each heavy push lifts her toes higher, and he's gripping her hips so tight, he may even be lifting her up off the ground.

She's losing it. He thinks she may be gripping the rails so tight she could break them off. Her face is pressed into the wall, and her hard breaths flow out against the metal, turning it white with condensation. With her cheek glued to it, he sees that she can barely keep her eyes open, mouth hung agape in explicit pleasure. He thrusts deep, and she is sings out a cacophony of cries and moans.

Rhys feels her pulsing around him, asking for more, demanding it. His hips slam against hers painfully, and she loves every second of it. Howls pierce his eardrums as he pumps in and out, and he forgets himself in the motion. He could be as sadistic as he wanted, in that moment, go as rough as he wanted and she would still be begging for more. She pushes her ass back against his cock with every thrust, meeting him, crashing into him like she wanted all of him inside her. He delves in ruthlessly, swift and brutal like she needed him to be, and her shrieks make him feel like he could do this forever.

She tugs on his tie again, mashing his face against her shoulders, into the back of her hair. With his chest resting against her, his thrusts angled up, hips flush. She wails as the movements hasten, fast thrusts taking her off guard and ruining her with delight. 

Rhys fucks her heavy and rough, fingers definitely bruising the soft skin of her hips, her ass red with the slapping of flesh against flesh. He bites at the back of her neck and feels her shiver, a gasp turning into a scream as he drives into her as well.

It was wonderful, the way she moved under him, rocking and jerking back and forth. Her movements became more erratic and hurried, scrapping at the wall. Hands slide up from her hips to her breasts, undoing her blouse with one button for every thrust. His fingers dig into the bra, cupping the soft flesh and squeezing, thumbs flicking delicate nipples. She bumps her head against the wall without even caring, moaning like a professional.

She seizes under him, her cries reaching a peak volume, and he curls against her tightly, keeping her still as he fucks her raw like an animal. She screams and screams and he feels her push back hard one last time, making him stumble back, but pounds into her fast and sloppy like he knows she needs. She sags under him, all her weight directed to the railing, and she lets Rhys destroy her, take everything she has. He cums to the sound of her whimpering and wheezing for breath, still so overwhelmed in an ecstasy that he caused. It is the sweetest sound he can think of.

They're breathing hard when he pulls out, sweaty and tired and barely standing. He's not sure what to do with the used condom, tying it up and leaving it on the ground. He feels sorry for the next person to use the elevator. When he lets go of her to fix himself, she drops to the floor, hands still grasping the rails, legs spread wide. Rhys kneels down to help, and she falls back against him, boneless. Her head lulls against his arm, eyes closed, and gives a large sigh through her nose.

“Take me home,” she whispers, low and rumbling. He smiles in a way she'd think was stupid, if she could see it.

“I don't know where you live.”

She slowly reaches into her breast pocket, and he thinks she must have everything in there. She brandishes a gold plastic card at him, and when he reaches up to swipe it on the reader, the elevator dings and starts moving up. He gets comfortable on the floor with her, relishing in the feeling of having her draped over him.

She looks like a fabulous mess, clothes wrinkled and askew. Long eyelashes hide tired eyes, and she's limp and warm against him. Rhys loves the heavy weight of her head cradled in his elbow, loves the sighs that slip past her vibrantly painted lips. He holds her closer, and realizes she's not awake to fight him or make fun of him. She's passed out. Rhys groans gently, hoping her front door isn't booby trapped or has a retinal scanner or anything crazy.

By the time the elevator comes to a stop, he's gathered her in his arms as best he can. She's still really heavy, and he has to admit to himself that he's not that strong. He doesn't want to throw her over his shoulder, so undignified, but he thinks holding her like a bride is also just as demeaning. He hefts her against him, face pressed to his chest, and he knows he's going to get her makeup all over his vest. He walks slowly down the lone hallway, tall ceiling and warm elegance, just like the restaurant. The large double doors are red and intimidating, and he sees the card reader just to the left of it. He finagles her a bit so he can swipe the card without dropping her, and her eyebrows furrow from being jostled. Even in her sleep she's able to convey her annoyance.

The heavy doors slide open silently, and he's greeted with a beautiful modern home. He wouldn't expect any less from her, too expensive, too flashy. The living room in all blacks and reds and whites, bold and contemporary. There's a spiraling staircase and tall angular archways, neutral brown and gray paint. There isn't much personality here, a bowl of fruit on the coffee table and strange minimalist paintings here and there. It reminds him of an office or a waiting room, uncomfortable, like it hasn't been lived in. It's cold and hard looking, like from a fashion magazine. Everything was in its place, untouched and perfect.

Rhys frowns and looks for a light switch, but realizes the lights started coming to life the moment he stepped through the door, slowly turning the room a soft yellow.

He shuffles further into the home, thinking of where he can put the unconscious woman in his arms. There's a black leather sofa near the fireplace, and it's probably the best he can do for now. He lowers her down onto the stiff cushions, resting her head on the arm, straightening out the rest of her. She looks comfortable, even on this stony furniture, like this is the first time she's ever slept. There's a throw blanket placed picturesquely over the side of the sofa, and he drapes it over her carefully. She mumbles and turns her back to him, nestling deep against the cool leather.

Rhys sighs and lets himself relax a little. Who knew when she would be waking up? He doesn't know if he should leave, or stay and take care of her when she woke up. Could she even get a hangover? Improbable. He'd rather her wake up and tell him to get out than for her to berate him for a week about how he ditched her. She wasn't one to forget.

He takes the time to look around the giant expanse of a home. Rhys didn't want to think he was snooping, but he totally was. He was hungry to learn anything about her that he could. He prays he won't find a dungeon full of skeletons, but the house looks so completely standard, for a rich person at least. He wonders if she ever even goes home, if she just spends every moment in her office. He wouldn't be surprised, but it makes him a little upset to see this kind of house going to waste. He'd give a lot of things to have more than his itty bitty apartment. Not to say he wouldn't miss Vaughn, either. Even if he had a big house like this, he'd still have Vaughn as a roommate.

He walks into the kitchen, stainless steel and black appliances. There's a fancy espresso machine, also untouched. He opens the fridge and there's barely anything there. Fruit juice seems to be the primary item, strangely enough. He thinks it's probably because she just eats out every day. That's what he'd do with all that money too. He notices, when he closes the fridge, there are drawings of disproportionate stick people and boxy houses hung up with star magnets. Maybe she has a niece or nephew, but it's hard to think of her as a doting aunt.

He continues down a wide hallway, also adorned with boldly colored paintings of squares and dots and smears. He was never an artsy sort of person, and he always wondered why people would pay top dollar for pictures of basic lines and shapes. He eventually comes across a large important looking door, and he knows this is her bedroom. He shivers unconsciously, eagerly opening it.

It's as spectacular as her office, huge window overlooking a dark garden barely illuminated by string lights and walkway stakes. Her bed rests against the opposite wall, and he imagines waking up in the morning to that beautiful backyard, flowers and ferns like a jungle. He goes over to feel the bed, duvet silky and delicate. It is heaven in his fingertips, and he is feeling brave when he launches himself onto it, belly flopping onto sweet cottony bliss. He breathes in the smell of laundry detergent and plastic, and he knows she hasn't slept here recently or frequently. Nothing smells like her here.

The carpet is light cream, plush and intense when he reaches down to touch it, lush and pricey. Rhys looks around the room slowly, enjoying the sinking feeling he's getting from laying on the bed, the mattress enveloping him.

There's a single picture frame on her nightstand, and nothing else. He rolls over to get closer to it. A little girl with pale skin and black hair smiles at him toothily. She looks nine or ten, and her eyes are blue as blue can be. They're familiar. It must run in the family.

He pulls a pillow out of place and buries his face in it. This is easily the softest bed he's ever laid on, and he lets his eyes rest for a moment. He won't fall asleep here, that would be weird. But he does want to just relax and know what it's like to have expensive tastes. If he does things right, he could come here all the time.

Rhys wonders what it would take to do things right. He finally got her to tell him how she feels, even just a little. Remembering it makes his face warm and his belly do somersaults. He wants to hear more of it. She's not an open person, and never will be, but getting her to smile like that was one of his greatest achievements.

He sighs gently and lets his eyes flutter open. Suddenly, he's not alone.

The same girl from the picture is staring at him from the door, curious, unafraid. Her hair is pushed all to one side, and her lips are pursed as she tries to figure him out.

Rhys tumbles off the bed, and the sheets go with him, tangling him up. He's quick to throw them off, face red at being caught sniffing a pillowcase. She looks unimpressed.

“I-I, sorry, I-I'm, uh,” his tongue is uncooperative. “W-Who are you?”

“You're in my house. Who are you?” Her voice is like a song, gentle and wispy. Rhys feels his head whirling.

“Y-Your house? I, um,” he starts. He doesn't know why he should be so nervous around a little girl. How does he even explain himself? “I'm J-Jackie's friend.”

Her eyebrows furrow together in a way he knows too well. “Oh.”

Oh? What does that mean? She looks him up and down quickly, and he feels violated. She stretches out her hand, and he sees white markings snaking up her arm. “I'm Angel.”

He gives her his hand slowly, and she shakes it vigorously. Her hands aren't even half the size of his. “Rhys.”

She gives him a confused look, but a smile blossoms on her face, eyes so very blue, cheeks pink and rosy. She's adorable.

“That's a stupid name.”

**Author's Note:**

> Froggyflan on Tumblr


End file.
